Ritvik remembered the vibration more than the words.
A small bzzz—not loud enough to wake the neighbors, but sharp enough to cut straight through his ribs. He had put his phone on silent, yet the notifications kept arriving like tiny knocks from people who believed grief had a schedule.
"Bro, where are you?"
"Are you okay?"
"Tell us if you need anything."
Three days since the accident, and the city still moved like nothing had changed. The tea stalls were still open. The motorcycles still growled past narrow lanes. The coaching center's lights still buzzed in the evening haze. Only Ritvik had turned into a locked room.
They said Mira had slipped into death like a coin falling through a crack—one wrong turn, one wrong second, and suddenly there was no undo button. Everyone used the same word: accident.
Ritvik repeated it too, because it was easier than telling the truth.
The truth was uglier and quieter: he had been tired. Not tired of Mira's face or her laugh, but tired of being watched inside his own life. Mira's love was loud, the kind that people called "cute" when they weren't the ones breathing under it.
"Where are you?"
"Why didn't you pick up?"
"Who was that girl in the background?"
"Send me your live location."
Each question wore the mask of concern. Each one tightened the chain.
That night—the last night—Mira had called. Her name had flashed on his screen like a warning light. Ritvik had stared at it, heart thumping, and then turned the phone face down.
Just one minute, he told himself. Just one breath of silence.
After that, news arrived faster than guilt could.
Now the guilt lived in him like a second pulse: If I had answered... If I had gone out... If I had—
He pulled the curtains shut and tried to let the room become his safe zone again: desk, notes, fan spinning slow, the smell of stale instant noodles. A place where he could pretend normal was still possible.
Then he heard it.
"Rit...?"
The voice was soft, almost polite, as if it didn't want to startle him.
Ritvik froze. Slowly, he turned.
Mira stood near the doorway, wearing the same hair clip she always wore, the one shaped like a tiny star. Her smile sat in the right place on her face, but the air around her felt colder than it should have.
Ritvik's throat went dry. "You're...?"
Mira tilted her head. "Yeah."
He reached for explanations the way a drowning person reaches for the surface: stress, shock, sleep deprivation. But Mira moved toward his bed and sat—except the mattress didn't dip, not even a little.
Ritvik stumbled back. "No. No. Get out."
Mira's expression pinched like he'd insulted her. "I can't."
"You're not real," he whispered, even though his eyes were screaming otherwise.
"I am," she said, calm as a message that wouldn't disappear. "And I can't go until... things are finished."
"Finished?" Ritvik forced a laugh that cracked on the way out. "What is this, some movie?"
Mira's lips twitched. "Salt won't work, if that's what you're thinking. It'll just make a mess."
His fear flared into anger, because anger was easier than panic. "Do you even understand what you did to me? I couldn't breathe. I was scared to talk to anyone because I knew you'd turn it into a trial!"
Mira blinked—once, twice—and for a second, her face looked younger, almost fragile.
"I know," she said quietly. "I'm sorry. But I'm still here, and I have a request."
Ritvik stared at her. "A request."
"Yes," Mira said, as if asking for a pen in class. "Take me for tea. The stall near your coaching. The one you always pass and never stop at."
Ritvik's mind went blank. A ghost asking for tea. The absurdity should have snapped the illusion, but it didn't. Mira's eyes held him like a pin holds a butterfly.
He went.
At the stall, Ritvik sat alone on a plastic chair, because no one else could see Mira. The shopkeeper asked, "Single?" Ritvik nodded, cheeks burning. Mira stood right beside him, looking at the steam like it was a memory she wanted to touch.
"Not too much sugar," she said.
Ritvik sipped. The tea tasted normal, which somehow made everything worse.
Mira watched the cup in his hand. "I miss this."
His eyes stung. "Why are you doing this?"
Mira's voice softened. "Because you never asked why I was scared."
Ritvik swallowed hard. "I was busy. I was—"
"You were trying to survive," she said, surprising him with the honesty. "And I was trying to keep you by holding you too tight. I thought if I watched every step, you wouldn't leave."
Ritvik's fingers trembled around the cup. "And I thought you were a monster."
Mira didn't smile. She didn't deny it. She just stood there, quiet enough to make his guilt grow teeth.
After that came more requests. Small ones, almost harmless.
Buy flowers and leave them at the temple gate.
Sit on the coaching stairs for one full minute without rushing.
Walk past the school entrance where she used to wait.
Remember her birthday.
Each request looked like closure from the outside. Inside Ritvik, it felt like debt.
Because Mira, dead, seemed gentler than Mira, alive. And that gentleness rewrote his memories. It made him question himself. It fed the guilt until it became heavy enough to steer him.
One night, Ritvik stood on the terrace. The city blinked below like a thousand tired eyes.
Mira appeared beside him, almost soundless. "Last request," she said.
Ritvik's voice was hoarse. "What."
Mira extended her hand. "Hold it."
Ritvik took a step back. "You can't touch me."
Mira smiled. "Who said?"
The cold thickened. Ritvik's skin prickled. "Mira... stop."
"Come on," she whispered. "Then everything will be fine."
His mind split in two—one half dragged by guilt, the other half screaming to run. He stood between them like a coin balanced on its edge.
Then Mira's smile changed.
Not sweet. Sharp.
"Oh," she said, amused. "You can still think."
Ritvik's stomach dropped. "What do you mean?"
Mira's eyes gleamed the way her messages used to—constant, certain, impossible to ignore. "Why did I talk about regrets? Because you're easy to push with guilt."
Ritvik's lips parted. "You were... acting?"
"Acting?" Mira laughed, and there was no warmth in it. "I'm just speaking your language. You wanted silence, remember? I gave you silence. And then I filled it with me."
Ritvik's breath shook. "I wanted you to move on."
Mira leaned closer, her voice a soft sentence that felt like a lock clicking shut.
"I didn't want to move on," she said.
The city kept blinking below. Above, the air tasted like unfinished messages.
Mira's hand hovered near his, patient as a countdown. "Run," she whispered, "and I'll follow. Stay, and I'll stay. Either way... you can't block me now."
Ritvik stared at his phone screen, dark and useless, as if it could save him.
Some loves don't break your heart.
They turn into a habit.
And habits don't die easily.